Chapter 97
Chapter 97
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 97
Chapter Title: Mage and Mage
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There’s a common misconception among those ignorant of magic.
Namely, that a battle between mages would be incredibly flashy and spectacular. This delusion shatters the moment they witness one, plummeting from expectation straight to the depths of fantasy.
Why is that?
No deep thought is required. In truth, mage battles aren’t flashy or beautiful at all. If anything, they resemble the exchanges between back-alley killers.
Mages are fundamentally highly rational by nature. Their emotions don’t fluctuate much, and their thinking must be flexible to handle various situations. Those who couldn’t manage that are all dead. Other mages wouldn’t leave them be, and anomalies stuck to them just as fiercely—it was inevitable.
Bodies wielding the mysterious power of magic must have seemed awfully appealing to anomalies. These days, mages rarely lose their bodies or souls, but in the past, it was more common than one might think. Mages without bloated egos made for prime prey.
Thanks to that, the surviving mages are all narcissists living off their own superiority, armed with egos swollen beyond Everest.
Ian was no different. He wasn’t arrogant, but not humble either; not cruel, but not merciful. So he saw no reason to let a defeated foe who’d charged at him only to tuck tail and flee go free or spare their life.
No, he didn’t seek one. From the moment his eyes met Eddie’s, Ian had decided to kill him. The other side felt the same, no doubt. No moral quandaries needed.
‘Information comes after the kill.’
He muses as he follows the compass.
‘A chalice to hold souls. Complete that, squeeze the brain, and pour it in—interrogation will be a breeze.’
Ian still didn’t know Eddie’s name or identity.
Important details, both. But no need to rush. Killing him would solve it.
“Hoo……”
Dark alleyway. Dawn, before sunrise.
Ian puts a cigarette in his mouth and checks the items in his bag.
Fortunately, nothing’s missing. The kitchen knife is in its sheath, anomaly flesh cubed for emergencies, and the blood-red rod that recreated the statue holds its place.
But opening the bag every time would be cumbersome. So Ian hides the kitchen knife in his belt under his coat, slips the ring case with the dying eyeball into his pocket, and tucks the rod at his side for use as a bludgeon if needed.
Click.
He draws the pistol from its holster and checks the ammo.
Three rounds total. He hadn’t reloaded since the monkey’s paw incident—unavoidable. He exhales smoke, swaps the magazine, and sets it to single shot.
‘That mage probably doesn’t have a gun. If he did, he’d have started shooting right away.’
He might’ve forgotten it, but showing up to ambush without one would be ridiculous.
Not underestimating—just an intelligence issue. Even if you think your foe’s an idiot, you bring at least one surefire way to kill them.
Guns aren’t invincible, but they’re lethal. Without proper defense, even a top mage dies on the spot. Muggle Avada Kedavras aren’t bullshit.
If there’s a counter, it changes things, but Ian’s only defense is the reverse sight. More warning than shield—if Eddie had opened fire outright, Ian would’ve been a corpse rolling on the floor before reacting.
‘Safe to assume no gun. But prepare minimally, just in case.’
Ian removes his coat, lays it down, and draws a magic circle inside with his blood vial.
The defense spell from the hospital. On impact, the coat turns liquid-like, absorbing and dispersing shock. He recasts it.
No need for the grimoire. It’s essential for re-creation, alchemy, and summoning—its signatures—but basic spells are fair game now.
Decent progress. Ian nods in satisfaction, brushes off the dust, and dons the coat.
He resumes following the compass.
Soon, he arrives at a hotel.
Never stayed there, but anyone would know the famous name.
‘Staying at that hotel he mentioned back then.’
Ian chuckles, pockets the compass, and enters.
Dawn, maybe—or staff stepped out—the desk is empty. Just a few guests milling in the lobby.
Perfect for Ian. He slips past eyes to the elevator, then pulls out the blood-scented compass and mutters.
“What floor?”
The needle spins eleven times.
Eleventh floor. Ian pockets it, hits the button, and lights his cigarette.
“……”
The CCTV bothers him, but no move now. Instead, he messages the bureau.
[Me: Sending address. Handle whatever happens here.]
*
“Urk!”
Eddie, who escaped via boogeyman, crawls from under the bed and vomits.
Gut-wrenching agony, like his insides flipped. Classic boogeyman side effect. Teleport to preset spots like under beds or closets is handy, but enduring the tearing pain each time is hell.
Still better than forcing the fight. Eddie catches his breath sprawled on the floor, then pushes up slowly.
‘...I know his lair, but he doesn’t know mine. Prep thoroughly and strike again.’
Information asymmetry is a great weapon. No need to rush into a trap. Eddie sorts his anomaly tools from the corner.
Vampire-cursed dagger—no reason not to use it.
Manipulates veins to prevent clotting. Essential for drawn-out fights. Downside: third strike hits the wielder. Just don’t exceed three.
Swallowing cube, multiplying tadpoles, kunekune, etc. Anomalies to crush body and mind alike. Eddie equips them all haphazardly and exhales deeply.
“……Hoo.”
He downs unrefined elf blood. Forces anomaly resonance. Trades temporary vision loss for heightened hearing—no issue.
Eddie wipes green blood from his lips and rubs his eyes.
Pupils blur, vision hazes. Nearsighted, farsighted, astigmatism all at once. Practically blind. Shapes visible, details not.
Fine by him. Eddie dons his sunglasses, sits on the sofa facing the door, back to the floor-to-ceiling window, and reclines.
That instant.
Thwip thwip.
Silent bullets punch through the door into his gut and thigh.
“……!”
Eddie’s face twists at the sudden gunfire. Amid spreading pain and blood, he glares at the door.
Clear bullet holes. A dark eye gleams through, then crushes. His own eye shatters in sync.
“Gaaah!”
Agony races along optic nerves to his brain. He screams, blood tears from empty sockets.
Eyes worked fine—confirmation. Ian smashes the doorknob and enters.
Lighter and pistol in hand. Flame devours sound around him; in the silenced zone, Ian levels the gun.
Eddie misses the sound but senses chill down his neck, grits teeth, pulls the hornpipe from his pocket, and bites it.
Anomaly summoning cannibal elephant with sonic boom on destruction.
But it shatters silently, dropping inert.
‘Magic that eats even others’ sounds?’
Eddie realizes too late.
Click click.
Ian fires twice more. One pierces shoulder; the other he barely blocks.
Spiderweb unfurled. From folklore and faith, steel-tough—perfect bulletproof vest. But three bullets in, his body creaks disobediently.
“Pathetic.”
Ian extinguishes the lighter.
“Didn’t expect much anyway.”
“……You fucking bastard……!”
Ian smirks and pulls the trigger. Eddie times it with Chekhov’s gun on the wall.
Bang— all firearms in the room neutralize. Dud rounds explode in barrels, mangling Ian’s hand.
Pain surges from fingers to brain. Not severe, but skin tears and burns.
More irked by the useless gun than pain. Ian tsks, tosses the scrap, draws and hurls the kitchen knife from his belt.
Scree!
Knife slices air. Eddie rolls aside by feel, roars, charges Ian. Blood frogs crawl up his legs.
“You’re human-born.”
Ian steps back, hand outstretched. Like divine revelation, Hand of Recreation descends from the ceiling into his grasp.
“Why seek evil? To achieve as a demon what you desire?”
“Gaaah!”
“Futile. I shall personally re-compose you by God’s will.”
Ian bats frogs with the grimoire, slams shoulder into Eddie. Thud—they both tumble back.
Eddie’s mangled guts take the hit, spewing vomit. Ian calmly recites from the floor.
“Be reborn.”
Crunch!
Eddie’s body contacting Ian’s implodes inward. Limbs crush toward gut, spine snaps toward heart.
Blood sprays. Bones shatter. Muscles pulp.
Horrid symphony fills the room. Ian grips the grimoire, picks up a fallen cigarette, lights it, and watches.
“……”
Soon, Eddie’s reduced to torso.
No limbs. As if born that way, nothing below the chest.
“Ah.”
Feeling it, Eddie sighs.
Ian ignores, kicks him over, lights his smoke.
“Aaah!”
Pain or ruin—he writhes worm-like. Ian watches, crushes frogs, draws the kitchen knife.
Drops it point-down. It impales his chest dead-center.
End. Eddie screams no more, expires.
Ian exhales long, sits on the sofa, smokes.
Sun rises outside. Ian stares at the dawn, then the corpse.
‘Mages’ bodies make great magic ingredients, they say. Good chance to test.’
Should’ve left the eyes intact, in hindsight.